


The 40 Hour Week

by Hikari_no_Chibi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2015, non-magic au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:05:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5473835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari_no_Chibi/pseuds/Hikari_no_Chibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Gold has won the convent raffle.  The only problem is, he didn't buy a ticket...  And what's he supposed to do with a full week of maid services?</p><p>This is my RSS 2015 gift to LikeHandlingRoses!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 40 Hour Week

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likehandlingroses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likehandlingroses/gifts).



> With special thanks to StandByYourMantis (LizAndLetDie) for her excellent help as a beta!

Belle’s eyes wandered up the pristine exterior of Mr. Gold’s salmon-pink Queen Anne Victorian, and her confidence shrank.  It was the only house on the block without any Christmas lights.

Belle had never missed her stilettos more.  Flat, sensible tennis shoes and a plain blue dress (more along the spectrum to gray than blue, if she were fully honest – and she  wasn’t entirely sure that didn’t reflect more on Ashley Boyd’s questionable laundry skills than it did the stodgy reputation of domestic servants the world over) were the order of the day.  At nearly five-foot flat, the scant few inches afforded by her usual footwear made all the difference in the world – but pointed heels capped in hard rubber were anathema to meticulously preserved hardwood floors, at least according to her supervisors.  In heels, Belle French was unstoppable; in flats, her body felt somehow wrong.  Oh well.  

The electric chime rang out three times before a hulking figure pushed open the door.

“Mr. Gold?” Belle wavered.

“I’m afraid not, Miss.  I’m Dove, Gold’s man.”  His _man_? What was she supposed to make of that?

“Er… is Mr. Gold in?”

“He’ll be at his shop, this time of day,” Dove chuckled. “I thought everyone knew where to find him by now.”

“Sorry, I’m still getting the lay of the land.  I’m the maid.”

“The maid?”

“For the week,” Belle clarified.  “He must have forgotten to mention me; Mr. Gold’s name was selected in the Convent’s raffle for a week of free cleaning services leading up to Christmas… or the holiday of your choice, I suppose, but don’t tell the Mother Superior I said that.”

“You’re not a nun, are you?”   The enormous man’s eyes narrowed, sweeping over her coat and landing on the visible edges of her uniform.

Belle flinched at the sudden change in demeanor and inched back.  “No, I’m not.  I’m just working for Herman & Boyd House and Yard Solutions until I find something more permanent.”

His scrutiny did not abate.

“They, uh, donated the week of cleaning service to the Nuns.  For charity,” Belle added at a loss.

“And Miss Boyd didn’t give you any kind of warning?” he said. If incredulity had a mascot, it was this man.

“No… Should she have?” she tried. “I’m sorry; perhaps I need to visit Mr. Gold’s shop after all…”

Dove gave her the address of a pawn shop in the center of town and promptly shut the door.  She thought she heard the lock turn in the latch.

Twenty minutes later, her car puttered and groaned its way down Main Street, toward a sign that read: Mr. Gold Pawnbroker & Antiquities Dealer.  At least the squat, small building didn’t loom over her the way his house had!

Belle braced herself against the December chill and dashed toward the shop.  The sign read Open – which was all the invitation she required.  It was warm inside, by Ebenezer Scrooge’s standards, and the main room resembled a very expensive jumble sale.

“Be with you in a moment, dearie,” called a rough voice from somewhere out of sight, the moment the bell over the door ceased to clang.

“Take your time, Mr. Gold!” she called back.  “There’s no need to rush on my account.”

“Nonsense.”  The voice softened as the man himself entered the room.  “It’s not often I hear an unfamiliar voice in this town.  I suppose you’ve come to make a deal, Miss… Well, I’m afraid you’ve the advantage of me there.”

“It’s French,” she answered, extending her hand.  “Belle French.”

Warm, brown eyes and a crooked grin met her gesture, but Gold did not move to shake and Belle noted the golden handle of a cane in his grasp.  “That’d be the prodigal daughter of Moe French, the florist, then?”

“I’m not sure I’d say prodigal,” Belle paused, relaxing her arm.  “Raised in Australia with my mum is more accurate.  But after… Well, I’ve moved up here to be closer to him.”

“Australian, of course,” Gold nodded as he spoke. “I should have placed the accent.”

“Well we don’t all sound like Crocodile Dundee, mate,” she teased.  “What about you? Something Scottish, isn’t it?”

“Glasgow,” he confirmed.  “How can I help you, Miss French?”

Belle did her level-best to mirror the evaluative, aloof look he was giving her.  He wasn’t tall, by most people’s standards, but stood a few inches above her, with a crisp, black suit and shaggy, graying hair around his shoulders.  Ex-hippie gone corporate? Belle couldn’t hazard a guess.  

Best to just come out with it, then.

“Well, the truth is, Mr. Dove sent me. I went round to your house earlier, because you won a week’s free maid services from the Convent Raffle.  Well, up to 40 hours’ worth.  That’s me.  But I guess they didn’t call ahead, because your _man_ ” – she paused on that word, looking for any reaction at all from him – “wouldn’t let me in.  So I thought I’d better pop in and speak to you in person.  I hope that’s alright? I know you’re working now, but…”

“That is quite enough, Miss French,” Gold said with a glower, his countenance gone from mischievous to grim in the space of a few seconds.  “Is this meant to be some sort of practical joke?”

“Er… no?” She said, shaking her head.  “I’m Ashley Boyd’s new hire, and my first assignment was your address.  It’s not a mistake, I don’t think; it says R. Gold right here in the folder.”

“So not your joke, then,” he snarled. “And that, dearie, is your saving grace.  If Miss Boyd thinks for a moment that this will ease her back into my good graces, she’s sorely mistaken.  Go home.  I don’t want a maid.”  He spat the word with ire generally reserved for pedophiles and the more creative class of swear words.

“Well, if you’re not looking for someone to clean house, perhaps I could do a little light dusting around your shop? I—“

“GET OUT!” he bellowed.

“DON’T SHOUT!”

Both of them panted heavily, stunned into silence by the suddenness and ferocity of their outbursts.  Belle broke her silence first.

“Look Mr. Gold, I can appreciate that you feel you’re being mocked somehow, and maybe this is just a stupid joke.  But if it is, the joke’s on me too.  It’s the week before Christmas, it’s my first job assignment, and the schedules are final.  If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.  Can you appreciate that, at least?”

“I can appreciate it,” he grimaced. “I just don’t give a damn.”

“Rhett Butler is only a good look for Clark Gable,” Belle snapped back before she could stop herself.

To her utter astonishment, Gold laughed.  “I like you, Miss French.  You’ve got grit, which is more than can be said for the rest of this town.  But please, allow me to enlighten you as to the way of the world.”

Her anger flared, but she kept her mouth shut.

“You see, in this town, I hold the house keys and the purse strings, quite literally in most cases.   Your father, for example, has taken several small business loans from me.  The Convent and most likely your own drooping apartment building are so many deeds in my real estate portfolio.  Do you imagine that they might be over-due for a rent increase?  So when I tell you to get out, you’d better believe that I’m not threatening idly.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Threatening me?”

“Care to stick around and find out?” he muttered.

Belle squared off her shoulders and stared him down.  He could almost be handsome, if not for the constant frown.  “You don’t want a maid? Fine.  I still need the money.  Here’s my cell number.  Contact me any time this week if you’d actually like me to clean something.”

“Unacceptable!” Gold sputtered.

“Why the hell not?” It wasn’t language befitting a lady, as her father would say, but her Mum – an Aussie to her core – would have appreciated the effort.

“I…! You…!” He waved his free hand wildly, willing the words to come. “Under no circumstances is this farce to stand.  You will give no one, least of all those damned Nuns, the impression that their idiotic scheme to humiliate me—“

“I hardly think being entered into a charity raffle is humiliating,” Belle interrupted, but he ignored her entirely.

Gold finally recovered himself. “You will return to Miss Boyd and the Mother Superior and tell them to pick someone else.”

“Er… I don’t think it works that way.  I can try to explain to Ashley about my time-sheet, but I’m pretty sure that the other raffle tickets will have been thrown away by now.”  That seemed logical to her, which – while not exactly a resolution – seemed a good starting place. “I think it’s you or no one.”

His shoulders slumped as he huffed, “Very well, Miss French. But don’t hold your breath for that phone call.”

This time, she didn’t need any extra encouragement to leave his shop, nor to let the door slam behind her on the way out.

Over the next few days, Belle considered every possible explanation for Gold’s violent rejection – from obsessive hoarding to a not-so-secret torture dungeon.  By the time she was contemplating potential vampirism and a harem of Victorian-aged women in flimsy nightgowns, someone finally took pity on her.

“It was a real mess,” gossiped Ruby.  “Ashley’s my friend, but she can be an idiot sometimes.  Thank God Graham – that’s Sheriff Humbert – took care of it.”

“What do you mean _took care of it_?” Belle gasped. “She broke into his shop and bashed him over the head, then stole from his safe!  How are they still in business?”

“Because of Alexandra,” Ruby replied, as though that answered everything.  “Everybody knows you don’t break a deal with Gold, so she had to steal back the adoption papers if she wanted to keep her baby.  It was the only way.”

Belle very much doubted that, but had the good manners to keep her mouth shut and visage plain.  Ashley was a young mother, that much was true, and if she’d had difficult choices to make… well, Belle wouldn’t judge her for that, just for the fact that she’d tried to rectify those choices in the most extreme way.

“So she was the heroic princess and Gold the evil villain,” Belle surmised. “Well that explains the volume of his reaction, but not the specifics.  This whole thing stinks, Ruby.  Why would someone have put his name into a Convent raffle in the first place? And why wouldn’t Ashley tell me what I was walking into?  Every time I ask her about it, she just brushes me off and offers to pay me for the full 40 hours anyway.  But I just don’t feel right taking their money for doing nothing, and frankly it feels like a bribe.”

Belle sipped her tea, about all she could afford from the menu after 6 years of university and moving halfway around the world, and waited for more information from Ruby. None was forthcoming.

“I guess you’ll just have to ask her again,” the waitress said,  shrugging.  

Belle resolved to.

“But if I were you, I’d let this one go,” Ruby cautioned. “Gold’s not worth your time, trust me, and Ashley and Sean are basically good people.  I bet you’ll get a wicked gig next week to make up for it.  I have it on good authority that they both feel terrible about this.”

“I can’t—“  

Whatever Belle could or could not do, her phone’s twinkling ringer prevented Ruby from hearing it.

“Hello?” Belle answered.

“Miss French?” wavered a familiar brogue on the other line.

“Yes, this is she,” Belle demurred. “Can I help you?”

“This is Gold.  Be at my house within the hour.  That is all.”  He hung up on her.

“Everything alright, Belle?” asked Ruby, bouncing on the pads of her feet. She had other tables to get to.

“I dunno.  Yeah. Maybe.  That was Mr. Gold.  He wants me to come over.”

Ruby raised a suggestive eyebrow.

“For work, ostensibly,” Belle sighed.  “I doubt he’s going to suck my blood.  It’s two days before Christmas; the week’s almost up.  I’ve no clue what would make him change his mind now.”

“Better hurry over and find out,” the waitress grinned wolfishly.

“And take a clove of garlic and a stake!” shouted Granny from behind the register.  Then, without missing a beat, she added: “Ruby, back to work!”

Belle dropped two dollars on the table, shuffled into her coat, and glanced down at her outfit.  A pleated skirt, leggings, and a blouse with matching heels was not the standard-issue maid uniform, but it would have to do.  Time to be brave; she headed toward the salmon-pink house.

This time, she had barely raised her index finger to the push-button bell when the door was flung open.  Mr. Dove still towered over her, but the matching wreaths of Christmas lights wrapped over his shoulders made him somehow more approachable.

“Mr. Gold will see you inside, Miss Belle,” he grinned, as though he’d never stared her down and locked her out.  Dove slid past her with a grace that would have been more at home in a ballet performance and ushered her through the door.

Belle stood and gaped just long enough to see him drop the lights into several matching piles around the porch and prop up a ladder from behind a hedgerow that must have been 3 stories tall if it was an inch.

“Dove?” called Gold’s voice from inside the house.  “It’s the middle of winter, shut the bloody door!”

“Sorry!” Belle called back, trying and failing to prevent the December winds from catch the heavy door and slam it hard in the jamb. “It’s Belle French, Mr. Gold.”

“I’d quite gathered,” he murmured, appearing before her in the small foyer.  Further into the house, Belle could just about make out the expensive-looking clutter of a life-time antiques nut.  The living room might have been charming, in its way, if not for the stacks of boxes and still-bound Christmas tree bristling in the corner.  As it stood, the whole effect was overwhelming.

“Er, did you change your mind about the maid service?” Belle asked the obvious question as she slipped out of her coat and shoes.  She wasn’t really dressed for work, but her clothes were comfortable enough to make-do; the heels were an absolute no-no on polished hardwood, though.  Without her heels, she struggled to get her coat onto the peg, and Gold finally took mercy and helped.

“You said I won 40 hours?” he quizzed.

“Yes, although—“

“Good,” barked Gold. “Consider yourself on 24-hour call for the next two days.”

“That’s not really…” objected Belle, but her resistance fizzled out.  She needed the money, and she’d be damned if she’d let Ashley and Sean pay her off for doing nothing. Maybe it was new employee hazing, maybe it wasn’t; Belle wasn’t prepared to take something for nothing, and then have it turn out that “nothing” made it her an accessory to some town-wide harassment scheme.  Gold was an ass, that couldn’t be denied, but there was a world of difference between believing a smack upside the head might do him some good and knocking him unconscious during a robbery.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked, smiling weakly.

“My ex-wife deigned to inform me this morning that she placed my son on a plane, unsupervised, so that he could spend Christmas with me while she absconds to Maldives.”  

He struck her as a man with an impeccable poker-face, but the illusion cracked when he mentioned his son.  It seemed even Mr. Gold had something that made him smile uncontrollably.

“That’s terrible!” she gasped. “How old is he?”

“Fourteen,” Gold replied.  “Old enough to manage the airport, I supposed, but barely.  He hasn’t spent a Christmas here since he was three, and…. Well, as you can see, we’re woefully under-prepared for any sort of holiday entertaining.”  

He gestured broadly to the boxes of Christmas decorations that seemed to have swallowed his living room.  

“Dove’s hanging the lights and already has the basic grocery shopping covered, but it’s rent day, so he will be unavoidably occupied all evening.  And since Santa sent all his presents express to Malibu two weeks ago, I need to buy and wrap gifts before picking my boy up at the airport tonight.  So, against my better judgement and with all alternatives failing me, I’ve decided to conscript you for the rest of it.  Trim the tree, freshen his room, make sure it’s all… all…”

“Christmassy?” she tried.

Gold nodded severely.  “Let Dove know if you require any of the furniture to be rearranged, or any other heavy lifting.  He’ll be at your disposal until 2.  Here’s my card – if you have questions that Dove can’t answer, call me.”

And just like that, Belle French was in the weeds.

The living room was a lost cause, even after she dragged the jumble of boxes into the kitchen.  It lacked so much as an inch of space to fit the massive spruce, which – when loosed from its bonds – proved to have a circumference larger than the tree skirt – even Dove didn’t think he could manage to move enough junk to fit it in the front window, to put it proudly on display like the neighbors did.  Belle just hoped Mr. Gold wasn’t too much of a traditionalist, because they were going to need a work-around.

She didn’t even want to think about what sort of man could get a full, fresh Christmas tree delivered to his home when most of the local lots only had sap and twigs left in stock.  In her own apartment, she’d splurged on a scraggly bush that would have shamed even Charlie Brown.

In the end, she pulled the leaf out of the over-large dining table, had Dove (who’d now asked her to call him Ian) deposit it and half the chairs in the basement, and set the tree up next to a pair of glass doors that overlooked the snowy garden.

In the boxes, she found some crushed plastic garlands, which fluffed up into suitable greenery to surround a small set of electric candles on the mantle, and wrapped a few bands of white lights around the bannister for effect.  A flattened, plastic wreath had to be thrown away, but Belle managed to trim a few branches off the tree and fashion them into… well, maybe not a wreath, but a pine bouquet with a big ribbon around the middle looked quite nice draped above the front door.

Ian had the entire porch and most of the bushes draped in white lights by the time she’d finished cleaning up the detritus (a universal constant when trees move indoors) on the floor.

“Do you need anything else before I go out to collect rent, Miss Belle?” Ian asked her.

Belle wiped the sweat from her brow and glanced at the clock.  How could it possibly be 1:30 – where had the day gone!?

“If you don’t mind, I could use some help getting the lights on the tree and hauling some of these boxes back to wherever they came from?”  She didn’t want to waste his time or get him in trouble with Gold, but the task of bringing Christmas to a house after more than a decade had run her ragged in the course of just a few hours.  They weren’t going to make it if Dove left now, and Belle could just imagine what that would do to Gold.

Ian, indefatigable as far as she could see, set about wrapping the tree in several strands of glittering, golden beads, and heaps of white lights.  Belle did a quick sort on the remaining boxes in the kitchen – anything that looked like a family keepsake came out, along with about a hundred matching glass baubles in assorted colors.

“The rest can go back up,” she decided, and moved to help Dove with some of the lighter ones.

“Oh, but leave that one!” she called, tugging one half-empty box weighing more than any two of the others combined.  “It’s a train set.”

“Young Gold used to like trains,” Ian nodded sagely.

“Well, who knows what teenagers like?” Belle joked. “But it’s at least something interesting to spruce up the place.”

“Was that a pun, Miss French?” asked a bemused sounding voice from the doorway.

Belle jumped.  “Mr. Gold! I didn’t hear you come in.”

Gold ignored her and pressed forward, nodding as he took stock of the dining room. “Not what I was expecting, Miss French, but adequate none the less.  Dove, there are several bags in the car, and then I believe your obligations will take you elsewhere.”

Ian nodded and left to bring in the shopping without further comment.

“I note that the tree is still not decorated,” he remarked without much enthusiasm.

“That’s next on my list,” promised Belle.  And then, in a fit of insanity, she added: “Though I’ve been checking that list a lot today, and I’m still not sure if you’re naughty or nice.”

When Ian returned with the bags, she and Mr. Gold were both laughing, the stresses of the day fading a bit.

“Did you want to help with the decorations?” offered Belle.   “We wouldn’t want your favorite ornaments to end up wedged in a corner, would we?”

“No time, I’m afraid.  Santa hasn’t got any Elves in Maine, so all the wrapping is down to me,”

He gestured with his cane toward the small mountain of boxes, garments, and rolls of multicolored paper and ribbons taking shape in the living room she’d only just cleaned.  Then he added: “I’ll be just there if you need me.”

“There were a few things…” Belle said, nibbling at her lower lip.  “The stockings looked like a mouse nested in them, so I had to throw them away.  And I couldn’t find a star for the tree, you could do with a new tree skirt, and I only just peeked into your son’s room, but I think it could use a few updates.  Thomas the Tank Engine doesn’t really seem very appropriate for fourteen.”

Gold swallowed hard. “I, uh, haven’t changed anything in his room since I lost custody.”

“I didn’t realize… The divorce must have been really hard for you.  What’s his name?” she asked, resting her hand over his on the counter.

He swallowed again. “Neal.  But I always used to call him Bae.  Just a pet name, but… he doesn’t like it anymore.  Groans and huffs over the phone, and insists he’s not a baby.  He’ll always be my Bae, though.  From the very first moment I held him, he was my precious boy.”

“You miss him a lot?”

“Every damn day. We talk on the phone about once a week, but it’s never enough.  And if I get to see him, it’s always on Milah’s terms, in California,” he said.

He paused for a long moment, lost in thought.  

“Fine, get the new bedding.  And the stockings.  And whatever else is good for boys his age,” instructed Gold.  

He passed her a sleek, black credit card.

She made no move to pick it up. “Well what was on his Christmas list, if you don’t mind me asking? That might illuminate a few things.”  

Gold scoffed.  “Garbage his mother wanted him to have, mostly.  Designer school supplies and a new iPhone case.  She liked to be the one who gave him treats.”

Belle looked unabashedly at the piles of goodies stacked near the sofa, and it seemed that Gold read her mind.

“Video games, consoles, computers, blu ray movies, a television…. He probably already has most of it, but I didn’t want him getting bored.  He might want to come again, you know? He’s old enough to ask for visitation now.”  

Gold turned to leave, lost in the same, sad haze of thought Belle had recognized as a child in her own father around the holidays.

Belle swallowed back her objections to the mountain of toys, reached haltingly for the first of the baubles, and got back to work.

They only occasionally interrupted one another – Belle, with questions about the sentimental value behind each ornament (a few of which Gold promptly insisted that she throw out), and Gold when he needed help preventing an oddly-shaped parcel from resembling an ill-formed lump.  By the time she finished, Gold had still only completed about a third of his work.

Belle dug an extra kitchen bag out of the cupboard and brought it to him for the scraps and cut-offs.

“Need any help?” she offered.

“No,” he snapped.  

He was too busy taping a wad of paper onto the back of an Xbox controller in a blister-pack to look up at her.

“Well, then, I’m just off to strip the bed and—“

Gold’s cell phone rang, and his entire demeanor changed.  Belle excused herself up the stairs, but couldn’t help from overhearing the start of his conversation.

“Hey, son!   Yes, of course I remember when you’re getting in, your mother… she did what?  WHAT!? I’m calm, I’m calm.  Yes, I know you’re not a little kid, as you put it, but you’re still my – yes, yes, fine….”

When Belle made her way downstairs with an armful of slightly moldy Shining Time Station bedsheets, Gold was glaring blankly at the wall.

“Is everything okay?”  she asked gently.

“My wife neglected to mention that our son was flying coach on a cut-rate airline, and now he’s been bumped from a 2-hour layover to a 12-hour overnight in Chicago.” The words fell like stones from his tongue.

“Can’t the airline do anything?” she gasped.  This whole thing was starting to sound like a John Hughes film.  “Surely there are laws that affect minors travelling alone?”

“I’ve taken care of it,” Gold  sighed.  He was spinning his cane between his palms like he wanted to burn the house down.   “They’ve assigned him a caregiver for the night, which I’m sure he’ll resent, and the ticket’s been cancelled.  I’ve booked him into a chartered flight that leaves an hour earlier tomorrow morning, direct to the nearest airfield.  He’s getting here around eleven.”

Belle was at a loss to cheer him.  He was demanding, harsh, and unforgiving in some respects, but the sad father who missed his son and joked with her in his kitchen was also in there somewhere.  She wanted to be some comfort to that man.

“You know,” she said, settling the blue patterned bed set against her hip, “You’re not the man I thought you were.”

His eyes jumped to hers.

“And I’m glad,” she smiled.  “It’s an unfortunate circumstance, but there’s no changing it now.  So let’s turn this thing around, get these presents wrapped, and then we can run to the nearest department store and get some new stuff for Neal’s bed.  What do you think?”

Gold glared down at the dog’s dinner he’d made of the Xbox controller.  “I suppose I could use some assistance.  After all, you did insist you needed a  paycheck.”

Three hours later, they’d gone through 4 rolls of paper, 3 rolls of tape, and lost 2 pairs of scissors.

“This is really too much,” stammered Belle.  They still had several big-ticket items in rather large boxes left.

“He deserves the best.”

“Yes, but… well, can I be frank with you?”  Belle asked.  It was hard not to feel at ease around a man whose pristine suit now contained the scraps of about 10 different holiday scraps.

Gold’s brow furrowed, and he nodded.

“I came from a split home. Most of the time, I lived with my Mum in Australia, and my Dad lived here.  Well, I guess he lived all over the place, but he ended up in a little town in Maine, so I didn’t get to see him every year.  But I did spend a couple of Christmases with him, and even though he probably couldn’t afford it, he used to put everything but the kitchen sink under the tree for me.

“And when I was 7, that was amazing.  More dollies than I could ever play with – I couldn’t even fit them all in my luggage to get them back home.  But by 12, it didn’t feel so great any more.  I didn’t want an army of dolls, I wanted books and to know my father had the first clue about me.  It was like he was trying to make up for too much absenteeism all at once.  As an adult, I’d say it felt like a pay-off.  And to this day, I hate that! The whole concept, anything that feels dishonest or like I’m being paid to go along with the status quo just really, really infuriates me!”

Gold quirked an eyebrow.

“I guess I’m saying that Neal’s not going to need all of this for Christmas to know that you love him.  We could set up the TV and computer – I noticed you don’t have either in the house - and we’ve got time to get him a desk and some full-sized furniture now.  And we could set up the Wii with the television, so you two can play.  I think that’s more thoughtful, in the long-run, than a mountain of gadgetry he’ll have to unwrap while you watch.

“Because I remember that too – the expectant looks my Dad gave me. Like if I didn’t give him the right reaction, it’d ruin his whole holiday with me.  It was a lot of pressure to perform.”

Gold stared down at his socks (black, of course, and Belle entertained the idea of buying him a silly pair with Rudolph embroidered on them).  He did not look back up.

“I’m not entirely unfamiliar with growing up in a broken home, Miss French,” he said sadly.  “You’re saying I should take it easy with the Christmas cheer and spend more time making him feel at home here?”

“I think you’ve summed it up rather more eloquently than I did.”  She relaxed, all the fear of rejection and anger she hadn’t realized she was carrying melting from between her shoulders.  “And… because we’re being very honest here, I think you should put ‘From Mom’ on one or two of those packages.  Unless you think your ex-wife remembered to overnight something before she left?”

“Doubtful,” he growled. “I throw myself into your capable hands, Miss French.  What’s my next step?”

They sat down and sorted through the parcels, unwrapping some to return and setting a few aside to furnish Neal’s room on arrival.

“I’m not much for video games,” said Belle.  “But I think you can safely return the Xbox and Playstation.  Let’s find him something handheld. That will be easier to take home when he goes.  We’ll set up the Wii in your study, and pick up some more of those playable character toys for under the tree.  Lego is good, from what I recall.  The computer can probably go in his room – unless he’s not allowed to use the internet unsupervised?”

Gold didn’t know, so they set that up in the study too.  

Imagine, a grown man having wifi but no computer! Then again, it was the Tablet age… but Mr. Gold didn’t strike Belle as overly modern.  They probably could have returned the computer as well, but a good laptop was much better for essential tasks, like typing long papers and managing spreadsheets, which Gold might eventually utilize.  Besides, it’d be more convenient if he wanted to Skype with his mom.  

“We should leave a couple of the movie discs for him to unwrap, though,” she prattled on, holding up a remastered copy of _The Godfather_ that Gold had picked out.  “Do you know what kind of movies he likes?”

“He mentioned something called Age of Ultra. Said plane was showing it, so the flight to Chicago wasn’t too bad.”

“ _Age of Ultron_?”  Belle’s expression blossomed into a Cheshire cat grin.  “If he’s a Marvel fan, then we’ve got nothing to worry about.  We can pick up everything we need right here in town.”

Gold left Dove a note, asking that a cedar chest be brought down to Neal’s room to serve as a toy box (Belle wasn’t about to pressure him to throw the small army of stuffed animals out on Christmas, and most were musty enough that donation wasn’t an option).  He also added a line about removing the child-sized furniture set and putting it into storage.  Then he listed a few items from his shop that would need to be delivered, such as a dresser and desk set.  Poor Ian! She was starting to understand what being Gold’s man was all about, and it seemed mostly like a lot of hard work.  But Belle had no doubt in her mind that Gold paid Dove very well, so she didn’t feel sorry for long.

It was going on six o’clock by the time they were ready to run to the shops, and Belle’s stomach was making a noise straight out of Jim Henson’s studio.

“Have you eaten today?” asked Gold.

“Tea, at the diner,” Belle answered, shamefaced.

“I’m afraid we haven’t the luxury of time for a proper supper,” hedged Gold, hands fiddling at his cuffs.  “But if you’d consent to something simple, I believe we have time to stop at Granny’s before the shops close.”

“Simple is good for me!” Belle cheered, while Gold looked genuinely surprised.  “I think I’ve earned a burger, what do you think?”

“Anything you’d like,” he teased with a sheepish grin.  “Name it and it’s yours.”

Gold ushered her toward the door, but Belle had a niggling sensation that she was forgetting something.  She ran back into the kitchen and picked up his credit card, still on the counter where he’d dropped it.

“Wouldn’t want to shop without this,” she joked, then flipped it over to look at the raised letters embossed over the front. “Rumford, that’s a nice name.”

“Nobody calls me that, Miss French.”

“What, nice?” Belle teased, passing the card to him.  Then, more seriously: “It’s alright if you’d prefer that I call you Mr. Gold, you know. I haven’t forgotten why I’m here, or that you really didn’t want to have me in.  But I don’t mind if you want to call me Belle.  All this Miss French-ing is a bit stuffy  when I’ve seen you with scotch tape stuck to your nose.”

Mr. Gold made a sound that Belle would have classified as a whimper, if she didn’t know better.

“Rum,” he choked out.  “Just Rum is fine.”  

And with no further effort to converse, he took her arm and led her to the massive, black Cadillac parked in the driveway.

Belle supposed that supper was lovely, or would have been, but in reality they spent the whole time being stared at by Granny’s other patrons and brainstorming about ways to get their shopping done on the night before Christmas Eve.  She barely tasted her burger.

“Hat Trick first,” Belle insisted as they climbed out of the car a few blocks further down Main Street than the Diner and Gold’s shop.  “I’ve only been inside once, but I can’t imagine that there’s anything a 14 year-old comic book fan would want that they don’t stock.”

“Must we?” Rum groaned as Belle tugged open the door, making sure he had plenty of space to maneuver his cane along the slick sidewalk. “Jefferson’s such an—“

“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t complimentary, I’m refusing you service Gold,” a roguish voice announced.  “I could too,” the man winked in an aside to Belle.  “It just burns him up inside that I won’t sell him the deed to this place.”  Then he introduced himself as Jefferson Madden.

“Well I do own all the shops on this street,” Rum gloated. Then he had the good manners to look a bit ashamed.  “We’re actually here to shop for Bae.  Neal.  My boy.  His mother’s sending him up through the New Year while she gallivants around the tropics.”

“Wow, congratulations!” Grinned Jefferson.  “He’s probably about my Gracie’s age… you know, a bunch of the parents are doing a sledding day on the hill behind my place the day after Christmas.  You guys should come, it’ll be a great chance for Neal to socialize.”

“I don’t know….”

“Come on!” Jefferson bellowed.  “The Nolans and their girl Emma will be there, along with Regina’s two boys, and Gracie.  Plus the Tillmans might come out, but who really knows with them? There’ll be plenty of supervision if you’re not up for the whole cold-wet-crash-landing part of it.”  He spared a knowing look at Gold’s cane.

“We’ll think about it,” Rum snipped.  Not a full-blown snap, Belle was pleased to note; she hoped he agreed.  Neal probably didn’t remember the last time he saw snow.

“Well then what can I get you in the mean-time?” Jefferson asked him.

Rum looked at Belle expectantly.

“Well, uh, I guess we need some good gifts for a boy who likes the Avengers franchise.  Maybe a couple of comic books, and one or two of the movies on blu ray?  We need a little bit for him to open on Christmas, but also a little bit to make his room more suitable for a teenage boy.”

“And some sort of hand-held gaming device,” Rum added hastily.

“Simple enough,” Jeff grinned.  “For Christmas morning, get a _Star Wars_ Lego set.  No objections trust me.  If your kid not living under a rock, I guarantee he’s seen the new S _tar Wars_ movie.  I can pick out a few of the classic Marvel books… _Infinity Gauntlet_ or _Civil War_? Nah, let’s just go with highlights from both, and let’s throw a few issues of _Batman_ in there for good measure.  Everybody likes the Caped Crusader, am I right?  And here are the movies… I’d go with _Guardians_ and _Ultron_ , if you’re limiting the selection, but I can get you the full library if you’re overcompensating for something.”

“Those two will be fine!” Belle soothed before Rum could lose his temper.

Jefferson was too busy flitting between the over-burdened shelves filled with multi-colored Pow! Splat! Thwip! cut-outs to mind.  “Try a copy of Sandman too.  Gracie’s been into that lately, which means Emma’s probably reading it when she finishes.  It’ll give them something to talk about on Saturday.”

Rum glowered at the pile of goods on the register as Jefferson rang it all up.

“Anything else?”

“Aye, we were looking for a handheld game system.  I don’t imagine that the standard model is still the GameBoy?”

Jefferson chuckled.  “Unless Milah underwent a major personality shift in the last 10 years, I guarantee you that that kid has every single portable distraction ever invented, since before he was old enough to read.  Want my advice? Take a pass on that one.”

Gold’s face remained a perfect blank.

“I’m going to write down some retro titles that have been re-released into the app store,” Jefferson continued.  “Pay for him to download one of these onto his phone if you can’t find anything to talk about.  I think your son will be pleasantly surprised by a few of them.”

After that, the rest of their shopping was easy.  Plagued by long lines, limited selections, and exhausted sales representatives, until they were both ready to collapse after the first two hours…. But still, Belle found Rum’s companionship easy.  Nothing else on their list had to be deeply thoughtful or personal, so they kept each other company as they hunted for cheerful, high-quality bedding, a tree star, and stockings, alongside a few other essentials that Belle suggested.  They’d need Christmas cookies to put out for Santa, for example; and she’d never met a teenage boy yet who wouldn’t get up at midnight to eat pizza rolls.

Maybe they weren’t the healthiest choices, but Belle had spent enough time around fourteen year-olds at her old job to recognize the basic staples.

When they returned to Mr. Gold’s glowing home, awash with twinkle lights and the soft sparkle of freshly fallen snow, it was approaching midnight.  Ian met them in the driveway to help unload the car, his breath a huffing white cloud around his head.

“Well,” Belle sighed, looking at the still-messy living room as she shrugged off her coat, “I guess we’ll be pulling an all-nighter.”

Gold had the good manners to look a bit guilty, but that didn’t stop him from taking her up on the offer.

“All the furniture from Young Gold’s room is in the attic, Sir,” said Dove by way of a greeting when the final parcel was unloaded.  “And I’ve moved in the pieces you requested, although I didn’t have time to wipe them down for dust.”

“I can handle that,” confirmed Belle with a smile.  “Mr. Gold, if you finish wrapping everything tonight while I set up your son’s room, do you think that Ian can manage to bag up the trash and take it to the dump? We’ll probably have four or five bags full by the time we’re done.”

“Ian?” Gold quipped, eyebrow raised again.  He was not asking Dove for permission.

“Er… he asked me to call him that,” Belle explained.

“And I thought we agreed that you should call me Rum,” he said.

Belle smiled, despite her tiredness, and stuck out her hand into the middle of their little circle like a football huddle.  

“Rum, Ian, are you in?”

Dove was, but the gesture was entirely lost on Gold, and they all  had a little laugh at his expense (much to Rum’s chagrin).

When morning rolled around, Belle’s legs were tucked under her and ready to cramp. She wiggled her toes and stretched, luxuriating in the feel of cool leather after being pressed against a single spot that had gone hot in the night.  Still, the rest of her body felt deliciously warm.

As her vision blurred back into focus, Belle recognized the dark décor of Rum’s study awash in the pale, morning light.  A model train was circling the base of what used to be bar.  It was now serving admirably as a TV stand, with a Wii hooked up beside it, and Rum’s collection of expensive whiskey locked safely away in the lower cupboards.

“S’early…” mumbled a low brogue beside her as a pair of arms tightened around her waist.

“There’s still work to do,” Belle whispered back.  The arms tensed, almost painful, before completely relinquishing her.

“Belle! I’m sorry.  I—“

“It’s alright,” she promised, taking the opportunity to sit up straighter and stretch her back.  Then she scooped up their stone-cold teacups from the coffee table, where they had mercifully not left any rings.  “I think we both needed a few hours of sleep.  It’s just gone eight,” she added, checking the wall clock.

For a moment, she feared Gold wouldn’t say anything.  But at long last he broke the silence, and said: “I need to pick up Bae in a few hours.”

“And we could both do with a shower,” said Belle, trying to smooth down her hair and clothes.  “Right, well I’ll finish up downstairs.  Cookies, star, the whole lot. Then I’m off home to change.  You get ready and make sure all evidence of Santa is well and truly hidden until it magically appears tomorrow morning.”

“Will you… will you come back?” he coughed.

“I can probably be back to make a light lunch?” she offered.  

“Ah. Good. Good thing. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of your 40-hour work week.”

She couldn’t help the laugh that followed.  “Well, you did win a very important raffle, so I suppose I owe you the rest of the afternoon, at the very least.”

Rum’s face squinched.  

“I still need to have words with those busy-body Nuns,” he said.

“Oh, buck-up. It’s worked out alright so far.  Besides, there really is a lot of work to be done, so maybe the word you should have with them is thank you,” she replied, with just a hint of sass.

With that, she turned on the spot and headed for the kitchen.

That had been… intimate.  And awkward, if only because she felt that they’d somehow blurred the lines between employer and employee in a way that she quite liked.  The best thing to do in those cases was usually just to get on with things and let the rest sort itself out.  He had his son to think of, and she was looking forward to spending Christmas with what remained of her family; this wasn’t permanent, whatever it was, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t reconnect after the holidays.  Spending a day together without an impossibly long list of errands might be nice.

Gold found her in the kitchen, up to her elbows in flour and looking happy as a pig in muck.

“Er, Belle,” he asked, unable to stop himself, “why did you want to do this?”

“Bake cookies?”

She tilted her head to the side as she evaluated him, a coquette to her core, and not for the first time that morning, Rum’s fresh-pressed suit felt impossibly tight.  

“I thought you had to leave cookies for Santa in these parts,” she said.  “Personally, if it was me flying all over the world, I think I’d rather have a beer.  The cookie dough will need to chill for an hour or so, though, so I’ll have to bake them when I get back.”

“While your assessment of the culture is both appreciated and correct, I was referring to your employment as a maid.  You have good instincts for people, and it seems you’re not a total waste in the kitchen, which means you can follow instructions and think on your feet.  Why not become a career girl?”  he asked.

 _Why not bat those beautiful blue eyes at the richest man on the block (who coincidentally is me) and build an easier life for yourself_ , he wanted to add, but that would have been tantamount to an admission – and Rumford Gold was not accustomed to voicing those thoughts.

Belle just shrugged, and tucked her bowl of cookie mixture into the fridge.  Her skirt rode up the back of her thighs when she bent down, and Rum gulped.

“I have a degree in Library Science,” she told him when she stood back up.  “And I was working as a middle-school librarian for a while, but when my mum passed, I decided to come here and spend some time with Dad.  The US is not big on dual citizenship these days, but Dad’s an American – originally – and it wasn’t really that hard to immigrate. Expensive, though, as I’m sure you recall.  Anyway, I haven’t found something better yet, and this pays more than minimum wage.  I sent a few applications to libraries in Portland and Bangor, but those aren’t exactly easy commutes from Storybrooke, so I’m not sure what I’m going to do about that, but for now….”

She shrugged and said, “For now, I’m just the help.”

Gold chuckled.  Belle French had never been just anything; on that, he would bet it all.

Then his stomach twisted on him. His son was coming for Christmas, in the first time in more than a decade, and here he was – nursing an impossible crush in his kitchen while there was still work to be done.  No wonder he lost his family.  It was too easy to get distracted.  Law School, work, and now the pretty maid… pathetic.

And then there was the slim package bearing Belle’s name, professionally wrapped in bright silver paper.  It was hidden in his closet, along-side the pile of gifts for Bae.  What had he been thinking? How had he even found the time, or the energy to keep it secret?  He must have gone insane yesterday.

“This is the last thing…” Belle was saying, and somehow she’d moved across the room, to perch on a chair next to his over-large tree.  A white and blue blown-glass star with dozens of delicate, sea-urchin spikes flashed in her hand as she leaned in and stretched toward the uppermost branch.  The chair teetered on two legs.

“Be careful—“ But it was too late, and he had an armful of soft, floury woman toppling into him.

“Are you okay?” Belle panted in a heap on top of him.

“Fine, fine,” Gold assured her, drawing her in tight.

“Um… thank you,” she flushed.

“It’s no matter…” Gold managed, scrambling free and brushing himself off. The suit would need to be dry-cleaned.  “Are you alright?”

“I think so. Oh, but I’m so sorry! I broke one of the spinets off the star… It’s ruined now,” she moaned, raising the delicate glass ornament for his inspection.

“It’s hardly broken,” Rum tried in a voice he hoped she found comforting.  “More of a chip, really.  I’ll have Dove place it when he arrives.”

Speak of the devil and he shall come.  Ian Dove executed his typical two-rounds-rapid knock and let himself in through the front door.  

“I’m ready to take you to the airfield, Mr. Gold!” called the gigantic man.  “Oh, something smells good,” Dove added as he breached the dining room.

“Belle mixed up some cookie dough for Santa.  Well, Dove, it appears that I need a fresh shirt and jacket,” said Gold, gesturing down to the floury-handprints on his shoulders and arms, from where Belle had taken her fall.  “And I’ll thank you to get the damned star on top of the tree before Miss French breaks a leg.”

Just like that, his day was once again a race against the clock.  Everything had to be perfect for Bae.

He barely had time to think through the consequences of returning the small fortune in gaming consoles and computer toys he’d bought in a panic yesterday, but suddenly Bae’s plane was landing and nothing would be good enough, and it was just like shopping for Milah all over again.  He’d hate everything.  It was all too common, too mass-produced, too cheap, too little too late, and too typically Rum.  His nerves were frayed by the time Dove hauled Bae’s over-sized luggage down the tarmac.

“Hi Papa,” the boy said shyly from inside a fur-trimmed anorak that made him look rather like a puff-ball.  They came together for a tentative hug.

“Hi son.  Did you have a nice flight?”

“Yeah!” Bae grinned.  “It was way better than the one from Chicago.  I didn’t have to share the row with anyone.”

“I should hope not,” Gold chuckled.  That was, after all, the defining trait of a private plane.

“And the pilot says we made it just in time.  I guess it’s going to start snowing pretty hard in the next few hours, so he wants to fly back west before the storm comes in.  Snow! Isn’t that so cool? I’ve never seen it before!” He bent down to pick up a mucky ball of slush from near the tire.  

“It’s not all like this, right?” asked Bae with a frown. “It always looks fluffy on TV.”

“Well, you were just a wee bloke when you and your mother lived here, so I’m not surprised you don’t remember making a snowman in the yard with me.  That’s good we can make a new one now,” said Gold, nodding to himself.  

He watched as Dove wedged the massive set of luggage into the trunk.  

“There’s nice, fluffy snow in the yard, and we’re invited to a sledding party with some local kids in a couple of days.  Did your mother pack any good winter clothes for you, by chance?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Bae blushed as they climbed into the back seat together.  “She packed all my stuff from our ski trip last year, except we didn’t get to go in the end because Killian’s work called.”

Gold nodded. That explained the bulky luggage, at least, and maybe Milah would have thought to hide a few gifts in there for Christmas morning.

“I’ll have Belle help you unpack after lunch,” he decided.  “She can take care of everything.”

“Who’s Belle?” asked Neal, unzipping his bulky coat and fidgeting with his phone.

“She’s uh…. Well, son, Belle is… Well, she’s the maid, in point of fact,” he stammered.

Rum had no idea if that was an acceptable answer for a 14-year-old, but it at least had the veneer of truth on it (no matter how much he was coming to wish that she could be more than that).

“Ok,” said Bae.  “It’s too bad she has to work Christmas Eve, though.  Isn’t she mad?”

“Actually, Belle is a special case. I allegedly won a week of cleaning services in a raffle, so she’s been helping me get the house ready for your stay. Today’s her last day,” he said, a little sad.

Bae looked up from his phone.  “How do you allegedly win something?”

“By not buying a ticket or asking for a prize, but finding out they called your name anyway,” he sneered.

“That’s lucky!”

“Perhaps.”  

And perhaps it was.  It had certainly forced him to step back and re-evaluate Belle.  Maybe Ashley Boyd had found a way to rig the drawing in a ham-fisted attempt to get back into his good graces; maybe some local prankster had written R. Gold on the ticket for a prank; maybe the Mother Superior thought she’d wind him up for her own enjoyment.  

There was no way to find out now, which he’d finally accepted about four hours after chasing Belle French from his shop on that first day.  Not unless the culprit confessed, and that was about as likely to happen as the Mayor being voted Miss Congeniality.

As they wound along the slick, December roads toward Storybrooke, Bae told him in halting phrases (broken up by the use of his phone) all about his friends in California, the family trip to Napa, and school.  

Was Bae still talking? Bae was still talking. Shite!

“But I don’t really like August anymore, because he’s a rotten liar like Killian,” Bae concluded.

A sour look that Gold recognized as a near-match for his own crossed the boy’s otherwise clear and open face.  

“I bet he’s never done half the stuff he says, and I bet he never met Chris Pratt either.  Just because his Grandpa’s some sort of set designer…” griped the teen.

“Er, you don’t like Killian?” Rum asked, then instantly regretted it.  He didn’t want to dwell on the man who’d taken up with his ex-wife any more than he wanted Bae to feel like he had to choose between them.

Bae’s nose wrinkled.  “He’s okay, I guess.  He tries hard, but Mom says he’s not good with follow-through and is scared of commitment.”

Yeah, that sounded like Milah.  Of course, she said that about everyone – follow-through being something on the level of catering to her every demand.  If she’s mastered one thing from her ill-fated gambol at night school, it was the business-like vocabulary of disappointment.

“She was pretty excited to go with him on his boat this time, though,” Bae prattled on, finally opening up and putting down the phone.  “Killian makes Maldives sound so cool, and he promised to take me… but he’s got to stay over there a couple of weeks past when I’m supposed to be back in school, so I couldn’t go.”

“I thought your Mother said they’d be back at New Year’s,” gasped Gold.  “You’re flying back to Malibu on the 2nd, who’s going to pick you up at the airport?”

Bae shrugged.  “The nanny, I guess.  I don’t really need a nanny, but Mom says I’m not allowed to be home alone.”

There was no polite (or even remotely forgivable) reply that Rum could make to that, and the rest of the ride lapsed into silence.  Just how often was Milah away?  Before he knew it, Dove had pulled into the driveway and was opening doors for them.

“This is where you live?” Neal gawked, looking up at the Suffolk pink house.

It did look quite nice, Gold allowed.  With snow in the eaves, lights twinkling along the trim, and Belle waiting inside, his home looked almost picturesque.

“It’s where we live,” Gold grinned.  “We’ve made some updates to your room since the last time you lived here, though.  What do you think?”

“It’s HUGE!” Neal gushed. “Our condo is like ten times smaller than this!”

“Well I very much doubt that,” he laughed, taking the opportunity to ruffle his son’s hair.  “But there’s quite a big difference between property prices in Maine and Malibu.  Everything’s more expensive in California.”

Unsurprisingly, the fourteen year-old boy was not interested in debating the peculiarities and fluctuations regional real-estate markets.

Instead, he rushed into the house and shouted over his shoulder: “Which one is my room?”

“Follow me,” offered Dove, one bulging suitcase tucked under each arm.  “I’m taking your bags up.”

“Cool!”  One heavy, steady set of steps followed by lighter, bounding ones stomped up the steps.

“He seems in a good mood,” Belle smiled, appearing in the foyer to help Gold out of his coat. What he wouldn’t give to have something like this waiting for him every time he came home.

“It could have been a lot worse.  I expected… Well, I don’t know what I expected.  Bae’s always been a pleasant lad, but teenage boys are not known for their patience or understanding when it comes to adult decisions, like going yachting in Asia over Christmas.  Something smells delicious.”

“Those would be the cookies,” Belle said with a flush, stretching up to hang his coat on the pin.  She still couldn’t reach, and Rum was delighted to scoot in behind her to make up the last few vital inches.

“Dove hung this for me,” he said, gesturing toward the aged brass and dark wood cloak rack.  “I really should have him lower it a bit.”

He looked down, expecting to see her small and shapely calves pirouetting as she balanced on her toes in stocking feet, but the plain and alarmingly white tennis shoes she wore utterly ruined the effect.

“What are you wearing?”

Belle looked down and tugged at the blocky sleeves of her gray-blue frock.  “It’s the standard uniform.  I should have run home to change before I came over yesterday, but you made it sound urgent on the phone.”

To make matters worse, her chestnut hair had been coifed behind her head in a responsible bun.  He hated it instantly, and reached for a stray curl at her ear.  His hand trembled to a halt as Bae thundered back down the stairs.

“Where did you get that Civil War poster, Dad? It’s not even out yet! That is so cool!”

“Er…” He had no idea what any of that was supposed to mean.

“Jefferson - the man who runs the local comic store - gave it to us when we told him you were coming,” Belle lied easily.  “I guess he had extras from the promotional stuff he ordered.  Maybe your Dad can take you downtown to see him sometime.”

“Wicked!” Bae grinned, and was off like a shot up the stairs again.

“I hung it up in his room last night,” Belle whispered, leading him gently by the hand back into the kitchen.  “I found it in one of the bags, and I know we didn’t buy it, and I had no idea how we were supposed to wrap it, so I just put it up over the bed. I hope that’s okay?”

“Perfect,” Gold whispered back.  He felt like a wobbly blob of hot pudding inside.  “You’ve been perfect, Belle.”

She giggled. “Well I guess you’re lucky, then, because I’m all yours for the next six hours.”

Six hours with his son and his…. his Belle? They had to be the best six hours of his life.  All the rest he would figure out tomorrow.  Once Bae was settled (“My name is Neal, Dad.”), it was a race against the clock.  Snowmen formed in the back yard. Cookies were iced, licked clean, and iced again.  Belle put on a simple but filling spread of grilled cheese and tomato soup, made with fresh herbs and thick, crusty bread.  It was almost like having a family again.

When Dove slipped out to attend the shop, which Gold reckoned ought to be open at least a few hours on the day before any major holiday (when the last-minute shoppers and penniless were most likely to call), he didn’t even break his stride.

“You know, B… Neal, we installed a Wii upstairs.  I’m not really sure how to operate it, but if you ask Belle she’ll probably set up a match for us.”

As it turned out, no fourteen year-old boy was so entirely helpless that he couldn’t get a video game to work on his own.  There was much eye-rolling, but after about 10 minutes of fiddling, a game called Mario Party popped onto the screen in his otherwise austere and serious study.

A few hours later, Bae was yawning.

“Ready for bed so soon?” Rum teased. “It’s only….” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only about eight thirty.”

Belle squeaked.  “I was supposed to be at Granny’s Christmas party two hours ago!”

Just like that, the spell was broken. Except instead of turning into a pumpkin at midnight, his sweet maid turned back into a woman who wanted nothing to do with him (a much less fantastic circumstance, on the whole) after her 40 hours were up.

“Do you, uh, need me to sign a time card for Miss Boyd?” he tried, playing for time.

“No, no,” Belle said, patting his arm.  “I already explained everything to her the other night.  Do you mind if I change in your spare room, since I’m already running late?”

“Hn?” Gold mumbled, unhearing.  “Yes, yes, whatever you like.”

Bae had turned off the game and muttered something about setting up a Net-Flick while Gold blindly moved to the side of the room and stacked wood into the fireplace.  There was a larger unit in the living room, but somehow - between Belle eschewing the front show-room in her tree placement and Dove’s careful setup of the game and train - his smaller, less cluttered work space had become the social hub of his home.  That, and the kitchen, which he knew in his gut would always be empty without the smell of slightly over-done cheese stuck to a pan.

Then again, Gold mused as the sounds of some Christmas movie or another filled the room, the reason Cinderella’s midnight run ended so poorly was because she had too much fun at the party and lost track of the time.  So maybe he wasn’t entirely hopeless…

He heard the front door open and close.  Hope was for fools and lovers, and Rumford Gold was neither.  But he wasn’t nothing.  He still had his son, he still had Bae, and it wasn’t fair to let his impossible infatuation with a woman half his age ruin Christmas Eve.  The door opened again.

“Rum?” called Belle’s voice from the ground floor.  “Can I use your phone, please?”

“It’s in the kitchen!” Gold called back.  

Stupid.   She already knew that.  He should have said something clever, maybe then she’d stick around for a chat.

“D’you mind if I go down and check on Belle?” he asked Bae, who was now totally enraptured with a singing, dancing skeleton.

“Yeah, whatever, just stop talking,” his son grunted, waving him away.  

Well alright, then.  Teenagers!

Belle was conversing in hushed tones as he eased his way down the stairs, his gait a familiar balance between ruined ankle and cane.  She’d tracked gobs of snow onto the slate floor of his foyer, some of it already melting.  Car trouble, perhaps? He pushed the door open to take stock of things.

Maine’s winters could be notoriously rough, but nothing had prepared him for the massive berms of ice ploughed right up to the curb in front of his house.  It must have snowed tremendously over the last few hours.  The ploughs would have been through at least twice, but thick white flakes were still accumulating on the ground - at least six inches of fresh fall covered the road.  The wind hadn’t picked up too much yet, but he could smell the stormy tang of a blizzard in the making, and once the road started to drift… Well, it might be a whole day before the ploughs could get to them again.

He could see the path Belle had blazed to her car, up to her hips in snow, where a small mountain of ice and slush had solidified into a perfect prison around the ancient Ford Geo. They would need some serious man-power to dig her (and the rest of the neighborhood) back out.

“Sorry about that,” Belle apologized when he came back into the kitchen, dropping his phone back into its cradle after bidding her father a goodnight.  “The storm knocked my cell reception out.  I’ve got a few missed texts from the weather service, though.  A travel advisory is in effect for everybody north of Boston.”

“Can your father come and get you?” he asked.  “I saw your car… I’m not opposed to helping you dig, but I doubt we’d make much progress with the way it’s coming down, and mine’s not in much better shape.  Or… shall I call Dove?”

“I wouldn’t like to think of either of them out driving tonight,” she said with a wrinkled brow.  “Besides, Ian said he was heading to the evening Mass after work.  If he is by some chance still up and moving, I’d hate to interrupt his holiday.”

“I could probably walk,” Belle said, just as Gold said, “Well, you could always stay with us.”

For the next few seconds, they frantically tried to talk over one another, Belle insisting that she couldn’t impose on Rum’s time with his son, and Rum demanding that she would do no such thing as walk home in a blizzard.

“Miss French, I really won’t hear another word about it!” he snapped.  “I’ll prepare a guest room and let Bae know we’ll have company for a while more.  It’s no bother at all.  You call your father back and assure him that I’ll have you home as soon as the storm lets up and we’re all dug out tomorrow morning.  I can appreciate that you came here to spend more time with family, but I believe that he will wholeheartedly agree with my decision not to let you endanger yourself.”  

Besides, he wanted to add, Bae adores you and I’m not ready for you to go yet.  

But he wasn’t being selfish.  Not unreasonably so.  It really was too dangerous to be out and about on the roads.  Well, maybe he could be a little selfish….

When Belle was done explaining things to her father, who (if Gold was any judge) had been at the eggnog a little too heavily, Rum took over the phone to leave a voicemail for Dove.

“Right,” she whispered as he dialed.  “I’ll just clean this up.”  

She pulled a mop and bucket out of his pantry and began to follow the trail of water and melting snow through his living room.

Gold left hasty, quiet instructions for Dove to come shovel (or arrange that it should be so) tomorrow morning. Or afternoon.  Evening at the latest, and really, no need to hurry.  Safety first, after all.  And that wasn’t selfish, was it? He was just being practical - it was Christmas, after all.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Belle announced when she came back in, draining the mop over the pink, plastic bucket.  “Sorry again for the bother, but I really do appreciate--”

“No need,” Gold choked.  She’d taken off her coat at some point, revealing an emerald green party dress in full velvet.  It would have been demure, with a high collar and long sleeves, if not for the thigh-high cut of the hem, made only slightly less lethal by the presence of wooly, black tights.

“Sorry, no need for thanks,” he mumbled.  “We’ve both loved having you today.  You’ve really…. well, you’ve rather saved our Christmas.”

“Rum?” she breathed as Gold took a shambling step closer, and raised his hand to her cheek.

“DAD, IS THERE ANYTHING TO EAT!?”

“I could make a quick dinner,” Belle offered, not daring to meet his gaze.

“You’re not my maid,” he replied, hands clenched in fists at his side.  “You’re our guest now.  You never have to do that again.”

“I don’t mind,” she breathed, wrapping her small, cold hands around his.  She was shivering.

“Belle, I--”

“DAD!” Bae groaned, stomping down the stairs.  “I’m hungry!”

“I’ll make something,” he decided, loudly.  Then, more quietly: “Belle, why don’t you go upstairs and warm up? I started a fire.”

“Okay.”  When her sky-blue eyes finally met his, they’d gone dark and wide.  Gold recognized the wanting. He imagined his own eyes would be black as pitch.

Dinner turned out to be cookies, cocoa, pizza rolls, and a few poorly-chopped carrot sticks that hadn’t gone into their resident snowman family.  Milah would read him the riot act for serving something like this if she found out, but neither Belle nor Bae complained.  Besides, they’d have a proper Christmas dinner tomorrow night.

With Bae nodding off during the closing scenes of The Nightmare Before Christmas and Belle pressed tight against his side, even congealed and cold pizza rolls felt like a king’s banquet.

“Bed time, kiddo,” he murmured, rustling his son’s hair when the movie ended.  “Santa’s on his way.”

“But I’m not -- yawn -- tired.  And Santa’s just for dumb kids,” he complained.

“I guess we’ll find out in the morning,” he smiled, ushering his son off to bed.  “Let’s chalk it up to jet-lag.  If you need anything, I’m right down the hall, okay?”

Bae complained, but complied, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, they heard the door to his bedroom close.

“I need to put out the presents,” he told Belle, by way of an apology, as he eased himself off the sofa.

“Let’s give him a few minute,” she whispered, snuggling deeper into her blanket.  “Otherwise he’ll hear us moving around.”  Her arms wrapped around his hips and her head rested just on his shoulder.  It was all Gold could do to snake his arms around her waist without pausing to touch every inch of velvet along the way.

“You could come back,” he managed after twenty minutes of staring companionably into the dwindling fire.  “For New Year’s Eve, you could come back.  I’d… we’d… love to have you.”

And then, because he was insane: “But… I don’t want to give you any false impressions of me.  My son has to come first.  I want you in my life, Belle, but…. I think you should know that once the holidays are over, I’m going to have a very serious talk with Neal about whether or not he’d be open to me challenging the custody agreement.  And I’m not a nice man.  I’ve got baggage, and you… you deserve the best.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Belle replied.  “But let’s agree to take it slow; I think it’s very charming of you to get all serious and declare your intent like this.  No, don’t laugh! Really, I do.  It’s old-fashioned and endearing.  But you’re not the only one with baggage.  I’m not a perfect little maid all the time, you know?  I’ve got ambitions and dreams, and  none of it involves full-time cooking and cleaning.  But I liked helping you, and I like seeing you and Neal happy, and I’d like a chance to get to know the real you while you get to know the real me -- the girl whose books are piled up way too high, and who sometimes doesn’t do her dishes all week.  So let’s take it one day at a time, okay? New Year’s Eve sounds great.”

“Then, I suppose, taking things one day at a time, that we should see to it that Santa makes his visit tonight?”

Belle tip-toed up and down the stairs with three or four boxes at a time while he hobbled along with a few small parcels. It was still there, in the back of his closet: the small, silver-wrapped gift with a single word on the label: Belle.

He shoved it behind his tie rack, so she wouldn’t spot it, and resolved to smuggle it downstairs after she went to bed.

When he finally brought down the last gift for Bae, Belle was busily hanging a pair of over-stuffed red lumps in the living room.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“They’re  your stockings,” she answered, as though that were the most obvious thing in the world.

“But why are there two?”

“Because Santa filled one for you and one for Neal.  Honestly, Rum, you didn’t think Santa would forget you?”

“I didn’t buy anything for myself, though,” he objected.  “I barely remembered to pick out a new tie for Dove.”

Belle just winked at him.  “Well, you did technically buy most of this for yourself.  And you’d be pretty safe in guessing that there’s a tie or three in it for you as well.  But Santa’s Elves picked it all out and included gift receipts, so you can do as you want after Neal leaves.  Except for this.” She flashed a small parcel wrapped in gold at him.  “This is from me.”

Without another word, she slid the small box under the tree.

“I… for you…,” he could barely string two syllables together when Belle silenced him completely by leaning up and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek.

“I can’t let you spend money on me,” he finally blurted out.  

It was a safer phrase than _you’re perfect_ or _please never leave_ , but just barely.  

“Not after everything… I was awful to you, and I made you work all day on Christmas Eve. And I’m keeping you from your family.  You didn’t have to… you shouldn’t have…” stammered Rumford.

“But I wanted to,” she answered simply.  “And it isn’t much. And I can certainly afford it, since I’m getting paid this week.”

“Then what are the rest of these?” Gold choked, poking at a package wrapped in gaudy cartoon reindeer on a field of red.

“Well, don’t let on that I told you, but your son is actually quite sweet, and the apple did not fall far from the tree.  He brought a couple of gifts for you in his suitcase; Dove helped him sneak them downstairs while you were busy.”

“And his mother…?”

“No,” Belle frowned. “Nothing from her, at least not that Dove found. So it’s a good job we’ve got a few gifts signed From Mom ready.”

What more could he say? She’d thought of everything on the very first day, and he’d just been playing catch-up.  No more of that.  First thing in the New Year, he’d sit Regina down and ensure that the Storybrooke Public Library was hiring in a very specific capacity. Then they’d worry about getting her into a better apartment, and he’d have to see what he could do to prevent Moe from defaulting on his loans before Valentine’s Day (the man flirted with financial disaster at every opportunity).

“I don’t suppose Santa’s Elves thought to hang any mistletoe in here?” he tried.

“No,” she giggled, stepping closer.  “I think the Elves must have been very busy to forget something so vital. But I think I might let it slide if you kissed me anyway.  Just this once.  For Christmas.”

He didn’t need telling twice.

*

Dove smiled quietly to himself as he heaved chunks of ice out of the driveway and away from Belle’s car.  They had cinnamon rolls and coffee started inside, and he could hear the sound of laughter drifting through the air.

It was early yet, but he wanted to be at Mass on time, so the extra effort was worth it.  Besides, Miss Belle’s breakfast had smelled divine, and his own family wouldn’t be meeting until after church, so this really was the best of both worlds, from a culinary frame of mind.

He had to admit, though, that he’d had a very near brush with disaster this year.  Usually, he made a small donation in Gold’s name each year, said a little prayer for his employer, and that was that.  He’d never expected Gold to actually win anything.

He must have been blind, to put all those tickets in Ashley Boyd’s raffle can… but then, the Lord did work in mysterious ways.  After the last two days, he had the sneaking suspicion that Gold wouldn’t mind finding out the truth (not that Dove ever intended to test that).  The old boy might even thank him.  Heh.  Wouldn’t that be something….


End file.
